


Sarcoidosis

by BellaFuckingRockwell



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Anal Fingering, BDSM, Begging, Bondage, Consensual Non-Consent, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Gags, House Being House, Humiliation, Hurt Greg House, Hurt Robert Chase, Hurt/Comfort, Impact Play, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Making Love, Nipple Clamps, Non-Sexual Submission, Pegging, Praise Kink, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Sexual Roleplay, The Author Regrets Nothing, all the tags omg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-13 10:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21242756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellaFuckingRockwell/pseuds/BellaFuckingRockwell
Summary: 18+ ONLY. DO NOT READ OR OTHERWISE INTERACT WITH MY CONTENT IF YOURE UNDER 18.Chase has a sensitive package delivered to work by mistake. When House opens it, he makes Chase an offer he can't refuse.Now complete. A developing relationship fic through a BDSM lens. Shameless smut and nauseating fluff ahead.





	1. Negotiation

Chase has had a long day. He should be exhausted; solving this week's case has cost him many hours of sleep, several dollars in coffee and, if his plans for tonight are anything to go by, a sizeable portion of his sanity.

The list House has asked for is folded up in the pocket of his labcoat, and he can almost feel the weight of it as he approaches his office. It's long after hours by now; the only people left in the hospital are overcaffeinated interns and nurses with superhuman body clocks. Foreman and Cameron will already be at home, and wisely so. Then again, they didn't have the honour of spending an hour brooding in the locker room, trying to slow their breathing; trying not to think of what lay ahead of them as anything less than walking towards their own execution. Didn't have to remember House approaching them in the staff room two days prior, casually announcing he'd opened a package that Chase mistakenly had delivered to work.

Didn't have to be reminded of that knotting of the stomach, that heat in his cheeks as his boss had said, _“interesting. I know you had your time, but never figured you were actually into that. Maybe you will be getting a leather stethoscope this Christmas after all.”_

_“Shut up, House.” Chase had avoided his eyes as he dumped extra creamer into his coffee and jauntily wandered over to the sofa. He was furious, but he knew better than to let the full extent of it show, lest House seized the opportunity to mock him even more. “You had no right to open that. What I do outside of here is my business.”_

_He sat down, closing his eyes in exasperation at the sound of House's cane tapping against the lino floor. His boss stopped behind him, looming over him in that creepy way of his as Chase eyed stray clumps of powder clinging to the sides of his cup. He was this close to praying. He'd done God enough favours over the years for him to take House the fuck away, just this once, make him disappear in a puff of smoke or something. Maybe if the Almighty was feeling particularly generous he could even turn back time so that Chase could get to that package before House did._

_Then he'd said, bastard that he was, “cute collar. Who you gonna be wearing it for?”_

_Chase was open mouthed, incredulous at his audacity. Had nobody ever covered the concept of boundaries with this man? “For God's sake, House.” His voice shook; concealing his anger was proving to be a more arduous task than he thought. “Why don't you get a life instead of nosing into my business?”_

_“Trying to do both.” _

Of course this was all going to be some huge prank. He knows House, and he'd be a fool to think that he wasn't just being screwed with. But a part of him had to know. Had to seize the opportunity, just in case it wasn't a mirage. Just in case there was even the dimmest chance that House was for real and not just setting him up for insults and humiliation for the remainder of his employment. Which, for the record, would not be much longer if that was his plan. 

_Chase had grabbed the nearest magazine off the coffee table, hoping that if he acted absorbed in an article about how to track your fertility maybe House would fuck off. No such luck; it folded between his legs as the rubbery end of his cane came down in the middle of the page. He sighed._

_“I know there isn't anyone, Chase.” _

_He glanced up. House was looking... earnest. House never looked earnest. He hesitated a moment, tongue running over his teeth. “I'm looking for a sub. If you're interested, write me a list of what you like and bring it to me tomorrow night. If you're not, we'll avoid each other for a few weeks and forget this ever happened. Either way, don't ever get that shit delivered to work again.”_

_And just like that, he'd hobbled off, leaving Chase red-faced and half-hard. That bastard. That utter, utter bastard._

_ And yet, Chase couldn't _be _more interested. God, why couldn't House mind his own business? Why did he have to do this to him?_

Even if by some miracle, House wasn't screwing with him, he'd at least expected a jibe or six about Catholic repression by now. But no – House is reading through the list, typed on his computer the night before with jerky fingers, quite seriously. He has his glasses on, the ones that make him look softer somehow, like a gentle academic rather than the ornery genius he's so familiar with. It almost fools him, sometimes. Mustn't be fooled now. After all, this is all going to go tits up any second...

When House nods and looks up at him, he feels... tense. Feels as though he may as well be naked on the chair across from him, for how vulnerable he's made himself. There are things on that list that he's shared only with a select few; two exes, one who reacted with a polite refusal to participate and another who dumped him on the spot. Strangers in the clubs he used to frequent when he first came to America, the vague acquaintances he made and did a scene with here and there, but nothing that ever led anywhere. And now, everything laid out on one side of A4 for _House_ to read. His boss, who just so happens to be a world renowned asshole first and a world renowned diagnostician second. Really, of all people.

Is this a new kink? Risking his job and his professional standing? Does he subconsciously get some kind of thrill out of this? What...

“Okay,” House says. Chase waits; feels the tension in the back of his neck as House places the paper down on the desk and regards it again. “So. Protocol... that's etiquette and all that junk, right?”

Chase nods, a little stiffly, because he doesn't trust himself to speak.

“Okay,” he says again. He probably would have missed it had he not been studying House so intently, seeking anything to give his game away; may have missed the way his inhale of breath stutters slightly, tip of tongue touching his top lip. Looks something like arousal, with a generous side helping of nerves, as he continues reading: “Consensual non-consent...” He cocks an eyebrow. “Interesting. Impact play... less interesting, but I'll bite. Stingy or thuddy?”

“Both.” Chase's voice is two notches down from its usual volume.

"Nice." House grins. "I like you.”

His words are unmistakeably House-esque, but his demeanour seems to be missing that usual cockiness. Chase must be imagining it, he thinks; his mind seeing only what it wants to see. He's still reluctant to invest in this being for real. Should he just turn the tables now? Claim that this was all a huge joke on his part? But then again...

House leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “Okay.” Why does he keep saying that? “I'll spare you the rest of the dramatic reading. I can get on board with all of this. If you're completely sure this is what you want.”

Chase hesitates. It is, he wants to scream. He's never wanted anything more in his whole life, this job and oxygen included. But... “You promise you're not screwing with me?”

“Nope,” House says immediately.

Chase licks his lips. “And if I believe you... you aren't gonna mock me for any of this?”

House shrugs. “Nothing important. But come on, you're a kinky Catholic nutjob. That's a freaking goldmine. You gotta let me get a few in there.”

For the first time since entering his office, Chase allows himself to smile; allows himself to relax into the chair, meet House's eyes properly. He now sees the nerves he merely caught a hint of before; suddenly entirely transparent to him, now he's not seeking the cruel intentions he'd been so convinced of minutes before. It's... unexpected, to say the least. Insane is probably a more fitting adjective, surreal even more so, to be sharing something like this with House. Not only the fantasies and desires that are necessarily kept entirely secret from everyone else, but the raw vulnerability of admitting them, agreeing to explore them.

And House has chosen him to open up to as well.

“Definitely good with this?” he asks. He sounds apprehensive.

Chase nods fervently. “So good. But we should, err, talk.”

“We are talking.”

He watches as House snatches the list up off his desk; folds it up, puts it in his pocket. Well, of course. It wouldn't make sense for House to give it back, although the thought of House taking a little part of him away like this certainly brings the reality home. It makes him giddy.

“Now listen, Skippy,” he says, in a voice that sounds more like his own. And Skippy is... new. He thinks. Australian jibes are a good sign, right? “These are the rules. I'll assume that everything on this list is good, but if you don't like something, it's your responsibility to tell me. I don't push your limits, you don't push mine. And pick a safeword, now. It has to be something ridiculous. If you don't think you need one, then you're an idiot and I'm not doing this with you.”

Chase figures he shouldn't be so surprised by House's concern. Realistically, if House wasn't bringing this up, he shouldn't be going anywhere near him. He tries not to give too much weight to the question of whether even without these ground rules, he'd still pursue this anyway. Oh, no. That's another thought process for another time. And likely, another thing to raise in therapy when he gets his shit together enough to sort that out.

“I'm not an idiot,” he proclaims, hoping House will ignore the waver in his voice. “Err... let's go with... sarcoidosis.”

“Great. Good boner killer, too.” House purses his lips, like he's impressed. “On that note, I'm not going to fuck you yet. It's too soon.”

Chase watches as House gets to his feet, holding his bad leg. “It's okay,” he says quietly. “You don't need to take it slow with me.”

“Maybe not.” House doesn't look around as he draws the blinds, shutting out the rest of the hospital. Leaving them alone, undisturbed. “But you need to take it slow with me.”

“Oh,” is all Chase can say. That tense feeling is back, knotting his shoulders; coming in waves, as it further sinks in that this is really fucking happening. “Um, sorry.”

House pauses by the door. “Stand up. Take off your lab coat.”

Chase complies immediately, not quite able to meet House's eyes as the garment that feels far too heavy on him most of the time slips off of his torso. It's always a relief to chuck it off at the end of the day; though never quite so much as it is in this moment. The symbolism inherent in it; the power shift way beyond boss and employee as House sits back down, this time in the armchair near the door. The one with so many memories embedded within for him; epiphanies on cases, fights with Wilson, self-experiments that have almost cost him his life. Until today though, probably nothing like this.

House beckons with his fingers. “Come here.”

Every step feels heavy as he approaches House. It's as if he's in a movie. Normal Things have never been a massive fixture in Chase's life, so this evening's events are perhaps not entirely incongruent with his path so far. It's just... this is House. People poke fun at Chase all the time for his willingness to follow along with whatever he does, his reluctance to question and challenge him the way Cameron and Foreman do, and he shrugs it off; after all, House is basically always right, and it's not his fault he's the only one with the sense to know that. Still, if anyone ever finds out about this...

“Kneel.” Every letter of the word seems to linger on House's tongue, like he's savouring giving the command.

Chase hesitates. “What if someone comes-”

“Tell them you lost an earring.” He's smirking. His latest gaming console is in his hand, retrieved from the bookshelf beside him, just another place he leaves the dumb things lying around. “Didn't you see me lock the door? Now kneel.”

As Chase feels his knees touch the carpet, he can't help the sigh that escapes him. That calm, serene feeling, the one he's been missing for so long, the one he's been jonesing for ever since he had the first taste of it in a club so many years ago, is already settling over him; ascending further still as House's lip curls upward in a half smile. Pleased.

“Very good.” He flips the console open, and Chase can't hold back a fond smile at the polyphonic chirp as he switches it on. “Keep your eyes to the floor and your mouth shut. I need some downtime.”

Chase lets himself slip away, greedy for the euphoria as he fixes his gaze on the carpet. When his knees start to ache a little, he finds himself shifting; inching closer and closer to the armchair until his head is resting on House's good thigh. House doesn't protest, pausing between levels to gently pet his hair, like he's a treasured cat.

The silence is broken only by their slow, contented breaths, by the beeps and chimes as House and Sonic the Hedgehog save some technicolour universe from certain doom. The world is on mute, his life on pause. His only complaint is that they can't stay this way forever.


	2. Delilah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chase goes to House's apartment for the first time. He has company.

It was right at the bottom of the list he'd given House because it was the thing Chase was the most nervous about. He'd deleted “being watched with someone else” twice before scolding himself, re-typing it and printing out the whole sordid document before he could change his mind again. So of course, it would be the first thing House picked for them to try outside of work. And of course, despite his reservations, Chase could not wait to get to his apartment.

He's fifteen minutes early. He spends some time sauntering outside on the sidewalk, trying to walk off the jitters coursing through his entire body. He feels knotted, nauseous, like he did before his final exams in med school. Back then, though, he didn't have the same fluttering excitement to take the edge off. 

He finally approaches House's door at five to seven, knocking much harder than he meant to. When House comes to let him in, Chase greets him with a polite smile, like he's popping over for a friendly drink. Does anyone ever pop over to House's for a friendly drink? Does anyone apart from Wilson and a roster of prostitutes ever come to visit House at all? 

House is wearing the same clothes he wore at work, a t-shirt bearing the name of a band Chase has never heard of beneath a rumpled shirt. Without saying a word, he invites him in with a pointed nod of his head. 

Chase trails behind him slowly, not quite expecting the presence in the living room. His hands ball into fists at his side, nerves rising; he hadn't expected her to be there from the get go.

“This is Delilah,” House says, gesturing at the blonde woman sitting on the couch. "That's not her real name, but she refuses to tell me what it is.”

Delilah's dress looks expensive, tight at her waist, cut low at her breasts. Her false eyelashes glitter in the light, plump lips painted flawlessly in magenta. She's certainly glamorous; stunning even, as she regards him with a smile that seems far too warm and friendly for this setting. The kind Cuddy gives to rich donors at hospital benefits, in fact, and just as forced. “Hi, Chase,” she says. “I hear you're in for quite the evening.”

Chase stares at her as she extends a leg, running the tip of the heel of her stiletto across the lino. He's forgotten how to introduce himself. Do you even introduce yourself in these situations? What's the hooker etiquette? Whatever it is, he should say... something. He should say words. What words does he know again?

Delilah glances at House, who's looking far too amused as he observes. “If it makes you feel any more comfortable,” he drawls, “Delilah's a med student. She does this to put herself through school. Back in my day, we waited tables, but apparently feminism says this is better. Cute and all, but she's still a whore.”

Chase gapes, staring at House in disbelief.

Delilah just shoots him a good natured glare. “Shut up, Greg. Textbooks are much more expensive now than they were in the dark ages.”

“Touché.” House shrugs, lowering himself down on the couch next to her. Extending his leg, he turns to Chase, who hovers awkwardly in the middle of the room. “Strip. Now.”

Chase sucks in a shaky breath. “Yes, Sir.”

The silence that lingers over the room as he reaches for his top button seems to roll out for miles; he can't bring himself to do anything but watch his own hands as they undress him, on autopilot, seemingly disconnected from his mind. Can't bring himself to look around the room, take in House's apartment, drink in his space, make a note of the things that make him... House. He had been so looking forward to that, being allowed a true glimpse into who he was, the kind that only someone's personal living area can provide. Now, all he can focus on is four eyes watching him expose himself, two of the eyes brown and pretty and entirely strange to him. His cock is hardening at his vulnerability, the knowledge of what they're going to do to him. The little whimper escapes his throat before he can swallow it down.

“How cute,” he hears Delilah say.

Chase closes his eyes, fingers trembling around his zipper; almost tugging it clean off his jeans in his anxious haste. House has seen him naked before by now. Hell, he's seen him writhe and beg, made him cum so hard he quivers and sobs, but stripping for this woman he's never encountered in his life until two minutes ago... the thought is a mix of terrifying and thrilling that rushes straight to his groin.

“Look at me, Chase.” House's voice sounds far away somehow.

Bracing himself, Chase raises his eyes to meet House's. His blue irises are sparkling, with lust, feigned contempt and the undeniable affection he's been seeing more and more of these days. Kind of like how he looks at Wilson – the affection part, anyway – but different. Unique. Like it's reserved just for him. Or perhaps he's imagining that. 

Wishful thinking. Whatever.

Chase blindly struggles off his jeans, the crumple of material somehow so loud against the carpet as he holds House's gaze. Goosebumps prickle over his flesh as he exposes more and more of himself, aware of Delilah grinning in his peripheral vision. Once he's naked, hardness on display, House gives an appreciative nod.

“Mm,” Delilah says. “He is hot. You weren't lying.”

House grins, with an exaggerated wave of his hand. “Oh, I'd never lie to you, honey.” 

His eyebrows knit in Chase's direction. Chase resists the urge to wrap his arms around himself; reminds himself that he's here to please. Concealing himself from their gaze would not be pleasing. He stands awkwardly, mentally pinning his arms to his sides. He can feel the tremble in his knees.

“You've been a little rude to our guest,” House declares, and Chase blushes, knowing that he kind of has. He didn't even greet her. But who wouldn't be shy in this situation? “I think you ought to apologise.”

So should you, he thinks, remembering House's earlier comment. Not that Delilah seems to care. She seems to have Handling House down almost as well as anyone at the hospital. He can't help but wonder how long they've known each other, if House still hires her; tries to bat away the pinch of jealousy at the thought as he mumbles, “I'm sorry, Delilah.”

“Good boy.” House points towards her with his cane. “Get down and kiss her shoes.”

Chase hesitates for a split second before dropping to the floor and lowering his head. Her pumps are cool against his lips, patent, hard and smooth. He lingers on one foot, then the other, releasing a blissful sigh as he feels House's hand come down on the back of his head.

At a soft kiss to his cheek, he freezes, startled; that was... unexpected. Nice, certainly, but unexpected. House fingers his jaw, gently turning his head to face him. “Remember,” he whispers. “Sarcoidosis.”

“Sarcoidosis,” Chase repeats.

**

House might still have no intention of fucking him right now, but he's certainly not averse to making it happen completely.

Chase is mumbling incoherent nonsense, unable to stop, driven by the maddening pleasure building within him. House is smiling, although he's trying not to; Chase knows he loves seeing him like this, desperate, bucking and wailing in abandon, completely coming undone. Though they've never done anything like this before, nothing quite so intimate; nothing that involves anything more than a hand on his cock, either his own or House's. Nothing that exposes him quite so much, makes him quite so vulnerable, as House watching him get fucked by someone else.

Chase is so hard his cock bobs against his stomach. He kneads the sheets beneath his hands with white knuckles, wantonly pushing his hips back to meet Delilah's thrusts. The plastic cock feels huge inside him, stretching his walls, so deep that he can feel the brush of Delilah's dress on his spread cheeks with every movement she makes. He keens in torturous joy, limbs trembling with the exertion of holding himself upright.

House watches every moment from a chair by the bed, scotch in hand. It's mostly for show; he hasn't touched it. Chase can see his arousal tenting his pants, but House doesn't tend to himself, as Chase had hoped he might. In fact, he seems to be ignoring it completely. Chase silently prays that tonight might be the night House finally allows him to pleasure him. Imagines his lips around House's cock, those roughened pianist's fingers tugging on his hair, his hips bucking his length into his throat... fuck, please, tonight, please...

“Good boy, Chase.” His voice is packing even more guttural bite than usual, and Chase whines at the praise. He's starting to live for those three words. “That's it. Take it for me. How does it feel?”

“God, so good,” he pants, as Delilah treats him to a particularly brutal thrust, one that jerks his entire body. “So fucking good, Sir, thank you, oh god...”

Above him, Delilah purrs appreciatively, her own breaths accelerated with exertion. Somewhere amidst the fog of pleasure, he wonders briefly if she's ever done this to House. She certainly seems... experienced. 

House holds his glass to his lips, but doesn't take a real sip, as he leans forward. “Good. Now touch yourself for me.”

Chase complies, a cry escaping him as he wraps his fingers around his aching length. He can feel the moisture of his arousal dribbling around his fingers at the head, the relief at the simple stimulation almost unbearable, his mere touch hurtling him close to the edge. He holds House's gaze, watching the way his eyes narrow, studying him intently; eyes slightly foggy, aroused. Please, House, he begs in his mind, please let me get you off tonight...

He watches House's mouth slacken slightly, then twist into a sneer. “You're pathetic,” he murmurs, as Chase arches his back and moans loudly. “So desperate for my approval that you'll gladly let a hooker fuck you for my amusement. Do you realise how humiliating this is?”

“Yes, Sir,” Chase whimpers, almost collapsing against the bed as he claws, one-handed, at the sheets before him, his orgasm quickly building. It won't be long, and House's mouth is so close to his where he leans in. It's all he can do not to press his lips to his...

House's tongue darts out, just momentarily. “You little slut. Cum for me.”

Chase chokes out a groan at his words, the intrinsic degradation and control within them like sweet music. Delilah digs her nails into his hips, and the prickle of pain is that final nudge he needs to tip him over the edge into orgasm. His mouth opens wide with soundless pleasure, the arm he holds himself up with buckling entirely underneath him; he collapses against the mattress as he spills his release into his hand, onto the sheets below. 

He lets himself lay there as he catches his breath, spent, limp, his eyes closed. Somewhere amidst the afterglow, he feels Delilah slide out of him quietly, House's hand comes down on his head, fingers making gentle, reassuring circles on his scalp. He wishes he could tell him how tender, how good it feels, but he doesn't trust himself to speak. Doesn't feel that he's capable of forming anything even mildly coherent at this moment.

“Did I break him?” he hears Delilah ask, with a nervous laugh.

“He likes being broken.” There's a fond, admiring edge to House's voice that makes Chase inch forward on the bed, wanting to be closer to him as he fervently nods his agreement. “I'm very proud of him.”

Chase smiles lazily as he opens his eyes. Remembering the earlier kiss to his cheek, he extends a hesitant hand towards him, brushing the back of his knuckles with his fingers. House's lips twitch with something close to a smile before he threads his fingers through his. Was that a little squeeze? It felt like a squeeze...

“I'm proud of you,” he murmurs again, and Chase beams with joy. “You took it so well for me.”

He realises he's gazing up at House like a lovesick teenager when Delilah clears her throat. “Um. I can see you guys are having a moment, but I've gotta go, Greg.”

“Oh. Right.” Chase wants to whine at the loss of contact as House releases his hand, reaching for his cane balanced against his chair. He keeps his eyes fixed on him as he says, “I need to go pay the babysitter. You take some time to recover. I'm not done with you yet.”

In his periphery, Delilah is working the strap on off of her hips, looking bored and impatient. It seems like an odd expression to Chase, but then again, this is her job. Her head isn't spinning with the absurdity of it all like his is. She's not the one who just had one of the hardest orgasms of her life. She was probably entirely zoned out while she fucked him, running over the risks of anaesthesia in her mind or something, or thinking about finals. It strikes him that this whole setup probably isn't even that interesting to her, maybe not even the most unconventional thing she's doing this evening. How very sheltered he's been. He's not sure he's ever even met a prostitute until tonight, let alone been fucked into oblivion by one.

She throws him that alluring, false smile again. “It was nice to meet you, Chase.”

“Likewise,” he murmurs sleepily. He notices House glancing between the two of them and grinning to himself before leading Delilah out of the room. 

“You on your back for your next job?” Chase hears him ask as they leave the room.

“Mind your own business,” Delilah responds, their footsteps fading down the hallway.

Chase rolls onto his front, resting his cheek on bent arms. He grins to himself as he wonders what else House has planned for him this evening. Hopefully nothing too heavy. Or, hopefully something heavy? He can't decide. 

His ears prick up as he hears a further exchange in the hallway. “I'm almost done with that lupus textbook,” Delilah says. “I'll drop it back to you soon.”

“Keep it,” he hears House reply. “I never use it.”

He frowns, as he hears goodbyes being uttered and the front door open. Is House helping this woman out with her studies? That's so... like him, somehow. Unusual, giving. So long as no one can see him being nice – so long as its disguised under the pretence of something else, or at least entirely hidden from the view of those closest to him – he'd go to the ends of the earth for just about anybody. His way is not something Chase understands, probably not something even Wilson understands, given how much he berates him for his behaviour. But it's undeniably kind of... touching.

As he hears House nearing the bedroom, he hoists himself up into a kneeling position on the mattress. God, he hopes this whole setup isn't just another of House's roundabout, unorthodox acts of kindness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't mix booze and play, kids.


	3. Want

House seems to have grown quite fond of holding him.

It's a development Chase never expected. Seems bizarre, really, that you'd allow someone to be privy to the darkest corners of yourself, yet find the simple act of them wrapping their arms around you to be something so worthy of note it keeps you up at night. Something to be analysed – duration, mood, tightness, and, oh, was he going to kiss me then? Nope? Okay – in case it meant that this really was something more than BDSM.

Their arrangement inevitably brings some necessity for gentle physical contact. In the early days, House would let Chase bury his face in his chest after a scene, a clawed hand softly petting the back of his head, until he was ready to throw his clothes back on and go back to the lab with a flustered faced and ruined hair. As time went on and things escalated, House would sling an arm around his waist and pull him close, murmuring gentle words that sounded nothing like the ones he would normally choose until Chase returned from whatever planet he'd escaped to, dreading returning to the mundanity of regular life on earth as he gathered his senses.

But now? When the coast is clear, House sneaks up behind him in the conference room, slipping his arms around his middle – just for a moment, just before someone notices, or just to whisper something vulgar – and the warmth of him lingers around Chase for hours. Even before a scene at his place, he'll have Chase lie down on his couch with him and draw his back to his chest, slipping his good leg between Chase's thighs, nuzzling the back of his neck with his nose. Then, after they've carried out whatever sordid plans they had for the evening, House scoops him up again and doesn't seem to want to let go. They always disentangle themselves eventually, before one of them falls asleep or before it really does get too late. He's never asked Chase to stay, and Chase has never wanted to bring it up for fear of pushing this too hard and breaking it; but still, the question of whether House would hold him that close, that fiercely, all night as they slept, is never far from his mind.

It's late, and it's dark. It's a lot like that first night Chase went to House's office and handed over his list, except this time the blinds were already drawn in preparation when he arrived. A single lamp lights the room from the desk, their shadows stretched out and distorted behind them. House is breathing hard, weight pinning Chase against the wall, one hand on the back of his neck and the other holding both arms behind his back. His grip is ferocious, and Chase feels so helpless, so entirely at his mercy. It's delicious when he's like this, vicious and primal, leaving Chase with his cock throbbing and his pulse screaming in his veins.

A knee forces its way between his thighs, and he shifts his feet, grunting, parting his legs for House. “That's better,” comes the wet, lusty murmur in his ear. “You're a perfect little toy for me, aren't you?”

Chase whimpers, squirming involuntarily in his grasp. “Yes, Sir.”

“Mm. Good boy.” House presses his body further up against him, his arousal digging into his ass, and it's utterly fucking delicious. “How do you think it makes me feel, watching you strut around out there? Knowing that as soon as you get in here...” His voice catches, a shuddery exhale. “... as soon as you get in here, you're gonna be on your knees for me? Offer yourself to me, let me do whatever I want to you? Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

Chase's body is slack; he pants into the wall, breath ghosting the plaster. As House's tongue, warm, wet, licks a stripe from his neck up to his jaw, he moans with abandon. His skin is on fire, his body screaming for more, as House continues to press against him; his grip tightening around his neck, fingers digging into the tender bones until he shudders in pain.

“Fuck, I want you, Chase.” House's head is pressed into his shoulder. Chase desperately wishes he could see his face as he declares this. “I want to fuck you.”

Chase juts his hips back, whining, needy; not just for show. He genuinely can't help himself. Feeling House's need has stripped him entirely of any inhibitions he may have had left. “Please,” he gasps brokenly. “Please fuck me, Sir.”

House hauls him away from the wall, spinning him around to face him in a way that almost costs him his balance. His eyes are ablaze with lust and aggression, mouth hanging slightly open, as he grabs Chase by the throat and yanks him forward so that their faces are centimetres apart. “God, you're beautiful,” he breathes. 

House's fingers brush softly against his cheek. He leans into the touch, closing his eyes; whimpering as the hand on his throat tightens, the heel of House's palm pressing against his windpipe. He's flying, he's floating, and House hasn't even touched him yet, but sometimes it feels as though he doesn't even need to. Just that look on House's face, admiring, predatory...

A startled cry escapes him as House grabs his arm and wrestles him down onto his nearby desk, his chest colliding with the hard surface, hands flying out to break his fall. House pins him there with an arm across his back as he fluidly reaches beneath him to open his pants, tugging them down along with his underwear with such haste that Chase can only whine helplessly; only writhe and sob in desperation as House's hand gropes at his ass, reaches between his legs to cup his balls. He grinds, arches, delirious, needing more, needing him; needing him to touch him, push inside him, whatever, he doesn't care, just something... fuck not needing to be touched, what a stupid thought that was...

But then House stops. The arm on his back lets up, the sensation between his legs disappears. He looks up to find out what's happening, what's stopped him, to see him rummaging in his desk drawer. He quickly retrieves a small bottle; well, of course House would keep lube in his drawer. This is House, after all. Still, Chase can't help but feel that burning prickle again, the same sort of unwelcome jealousy he felt in seeing him with Delilah, at the thought that maybe he's fucked other people here in this office. He tries to fight the thought from his mind; he really mustn't entertain that now. Not when the prospect of House entering him, taking what's his, at long last, is so imminent.

Chase is in paradise, permitted to behave in such a wanton manner. To eagerly spread his legs in anticipation, to whine as though he were being fucked as House tugs on his hair, the prickling pain on the back of his scalp only sending him deeper into his trance. And finally, the incredible moment when a finger, slicked with lube, starts to probe his asshole. Finally, fucking finally, House is going to prepare him before he takes him. His mind is reeling.

As the first finger begins to slip inside, he grits his teeth, whimpering at the invasion. He shudders in a breath, trying to relax as House runs a reassuring hand down his flank. “Good boy, Chase.” That praise again, like honey. “Take it for me.”

These words are all he needs to command the tight muscle to relax. Chase feels himself beginning to unwind, his body following suit. And House is remarkably gentle, as he easily finds his prostate, nudging at the sensitive gland until Chase shudders and bucks. “More, please, Sir,” he gasps, eyes falling closed in bliss, as the initial shock gives way to pleasure.

“Greedy boy.” He can hear the smile playing on House's lips; feel the next finger skimming his entrance.

Then, as the phone starts to ring, Chase's eyes fly open. Above him, House grumbles a curse; leans over him to peer at the source of the interruption.

“Cuddy,” he groans. “I actually better take this. Mommy's kinda mad at me right now. Keep your mouth shut.”

Before Chase can protest, House has leaned over to jab at the receiver with some difficulty, pressing himself deliciously against Chase as he does so. She's on loudspeaker. “House? Are you there”

“Can you make it quick? I'm trying to screw Chase in here.”

Chase has to slap a hand over his mouth to hold in the shocked laugh that tries to fight its way out. House gives a warning tug on his hair, yanking his head back to mouth “shut up.” He's grinning though, fondly, conspiratorially. Chase is suddenly astounded; is House inviting him to join in one of his Lets Screw With Cuddy games? Even Wilson doesn't get to participate in those. Not that he even would, if such a grand opportunity presented itself.

“What?” comes the agitated response through the speaker, as House presses Chase's face back into the desk. “Actually, you know what, I'm not even gonna engage with that. House, why are you badgering this poor girl's parents to agree to a risky, unnecessary round of tests? They've filed a complaint. I thought you agreed you'd just run the bloods again and see if you missed anything?”

Chase chokes a moan into his hand as that second finger starts prodding at his hole, seeking entrance. He freezes, his breaths coming hard through his nostrils. Was that audible? Did she hear that?

“That was this morning, when we didn't think she was that sick.” As House speaks, Chase tries to focus on that gentle hand returning to his flank as his fingers continue to slowly work him open. Focuses on what's happening: a part of House, inside him, finally. “This afternoon, out of nowhere, she had this, you know, crazy stroke, that gave us an idea that something might actually be up. So unless you want her to die before I can figure this out, I suggest you leave me alone to run those risky, unnecessary tests.”

As House's hand leaves his side and wraps around his cock instead, he catches his near scream in his throat before it can escape. Fuck, no one has ever touched him like House does. No one ever will again. He struggles with everything he has to stay still, quiet. As soon as Cuddy gets off the phone, he's going to have to yell his delight. He's not going to be able to help it... fuck, what if he cums while she's still on the line? Mustn't cum, no matter what.

Cuddy sighs, heavy, exasperated. “Whatever,” she says. “I'm going home. This isn't over. My office, tomorrow morning.”

“I look forward to it,” House says, with feigned brightness. “Oh, and Cuddy?”

She sighs again. “What?”

“Do you think Chase is a slut?”

Chase's eyes widen.

“_House_!” Cuddy exclaims. “That is so wildly inappropriate I don't even know where to begin. What the hell is wrong with you? We'll be discussing that tomorrow too.”

“I look forward to it!” House chirps again, as the line goes dead. “God, she's a pain in the ass.”

“Fuck, please,” Chase whines, arching his hips for more, fingertips digging into the desk. “Please, I need you, please...”

“Shut up.”

Chase clamps his teeth into his bottom lip to hold in any further desperate appeals. As House increases his rhythm on his cock, Chase cries out in ecstasy, moving his hips to meet House's fingers thrusting within him, with ease now, opening him up for him. The material of House's jeans brushes his bare ass, and he whimpers his need as he feels his erection pressed up against him. House grinds against Chase in tandem with his fingers, rhythm steady.

“You are a slut, Chase,” he spits. “Bent over my desk, getting used while my boss listens in. You're pathetic, aren't you?”

“Yes, Sir,” he gasps, writhing on the desk beneath him. “I-I'm pathetic, I'm a slut, I'm...”

He trails off as House growls appreciatively, slamming against him so hard that his thighs collide with the desk, evoking a moan of pain. “You probably wouldn't even mind if these blinds were open. If everyone could see you like this, half naked, begging for me. No surprise though, half the hospital has probably fucked you already... God, you're so cheap...”

Chase is delirious, eyes rolling to the back of his head. He's going to lose it. He's done, with House fucking him with his hand like this, pumping his cock, bringing him closer and closer. He's going to cum before House can enter him...

“_Fuck_,” is all he can manage, before he spills all over House's hand, back arching like he's possessed. His orgasm is so brutal that he can't hold back the cries it wrenches from his throat, supernovas dancing before his eyes, his knees buckling beneath him. Only the weight of House pressed so close to him stops him from dropping to the floor completely.

He releases one final moan as House's fingers slide out of him, leaving him feeling empty and dazed. With some difficulty, he straightens himself up on shaking arms to see that House is already grabbing a handful of antiseptic wipes from the pack he swiped from the ER in preparation, starting to clean Chase's cum off of his hand. Chase looks down, slightly embarrassed to see that he spilled some of his release on House's desk; noticing, House chucks him a wipe too.

Chase clears his throat as he hoists his pants back up around his waist, hands still slightly unsteady from the force of his orgasm. He doesn't say anything, and House doesn't say anything, and it's... awkward. Why is it awkward? Who's making it awkward? Him, or House? Is he mad because Chase didn't ask permission to cum? He is supposed to... but surely House wouldn't be genuinely angry with him about that? Either way, it feels like the scene is over. It's finished, and House still hasn't taken him.

He finds himself staring down at his open belt buckle for a moment or two, as if his memory has been wiped of how to re-fasten it. He only looks up when House approaches him, not smiling, not quite; then, as he wraps his arms around his torso, Chase sighs and relaxes against him. He places his hands on his shoulders as he inhales his scent, aftershave and a slight musk following their encounter. It's undeniably House, and it feels safe and comforting and warm.

As he feels those firm hands caress his back, moving upwards to ruffle his hair, he closes his eyes, suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion. “You okay?” House murmurs.

Chase nods, because he doesn't know what else to do. Is he okay? Maybe. There are so many questions dancing on the tip of his tongue, but finding the words to ask them seems impossible.

House sighs against him. “I... did want to fuck you. I just, I can't yet.”

The admission draws Chase's mouth into a frown. “Is something wrong?” is all he can think to ask.

House shakes his head against him; then, as if to emphasise his point, adds, “no.”

_Clearly is_, Chase thinks.

House draws back from the embrace, hands resting on Chase's flanks. His eyes narrow for a moment; his tongue darts out across his upper lip. “Was kissing on your list? I forget.”

Chase's breath catches in his throat. “You... want to kiss me?”

House smiles. Not a predatory grin, not a sneer; a genuine, tender smile. “I always want to kiss you.”

All this intimacy, all this trust, and only now, something so simple as a kiss.

Chase thinks he might go into shock at the revelation; at the way House regards him, the way he reaches up to tuck his hair behind his ear, like they always do in movies. Not trusting himself to speak for the fear that he might blurt out something stupid, all he can manage is a nod of agreement; a relieved sigh against House's lips as he softly presses them up against his. They linger there for a moment, experimenting, until Chase can't resist opening his mouth; can't stop himself from touching House's face, feeling that stubble brush against his palms as House's tongue slides up against his.

And as House sighs against him, something like relief, something like passion, all the things House's myriad of issues would never let him vocalise, Chase kisses him like there's a fucking gun to his head and tries to communicate his own unspeakable feelings right back.


	4. Blindfold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: being gagged lying down is a little risky in reality because it can lead to choking. don't ever do this alone. if you're gonna mess around with this kind of stuff always be aware of the risks and put your safety above everything else.

_Why won't he let me see him naked?_

The question invades every crevice of Chase's mind, ever present these days.

They're having fun. House seems satisfied with how things are and God knows he's rarely felt more fulfilled in his life. It's just... it's so hard not to take it personally. Hard for one question not to swell until it bursts with the implications behind it, only producing more: _why won't he fuck me? Why won't he let me get him off? Is he not attracted to me? Is this not actually sexual for him?_

The last two questions especially are a dead end. Ever since House told him he was beautiful in his office the other day, he won't stop saying it. He's declared that he wants to fuck him, but can't yet. He's clearly extremely aroused by everything they do. And yet... he seems to ignore it.

_Is he ashamed? But what of?_

Why now, during the moment when everything that bothers him is meant to fade into mere background noise, does it all niggle at him so much? Chase is naked, spread on his back on House's bed. His arms are above his head, wrists bound to the headboard with soft rope, like they always are when House wants him there for a while. The same rope is around his ankles, holding his legs open where they're bound to the footboard. A ball gag is strapped into his mouth, stifling the odd pained moan when the clamps on his nipples feel too much to bear. He bucks his hips into the air occasionally, trying fruitlessly to get some relief, some stimulation. He fears that he'll cum as soon as he's touched.

House has his feet up on the bed in the gap that his spread legs provide, sitting on a chair at the foot of it. He has his nose in a book, his hand around a cup of coffee. He makes the odd “hmm” of interest at his reading material; occasionally he extends his foot and massages Chase's balls with his sole, just gently, not enough to provide any real relief. If Chase releases a frustrated, pleading grunt, House looks up from the book and shoots him a warning glare until he sighs, defeated, and makes a special effort to hold still. Not that he can move very far, anyway.

House loves to see him like this, helpless, frustrated. Usually, Chase revels in his predicament just as much, along with the humiliation of House pretending to ignore his suffering, even though he well knows House hasn't taken in a word of that book. His self-control is astounding. He closes his eyes, trying to focus on the sensations; the nagging, building pain in his nipples, the bindings on his wrists and ankles, the fullness in his mouth. Usually, he slips away into such delirious fog when House has him like this that coherent thought is a mere pipe dream, and one he wants nothing to do with anyway. But today, his mind won't stop. It whirs, clicks, analysing every tiny interaction between them over the past few weeks. The kiss to his cheek when he was on his knees for Delilah. The way House pumped and fingered him to orgasm in his office, grinding against him as if he was fucking him without actually doing so. The string of kisses that have followed since that first one, the way House grabbed him by his shirt when he entered his apartment this evening and slammed his lips up against his before even closing the door. The way he wrestled him onto the bed and undressed him in a frenzy, mouth barely leaving his the whole time, moaning and pawing at him as if he were the eager sub of the two.

_Doesn't he trust me? Has someone hurt him before? What is he so worried about?_

_Is it really that shitty of me to just to ask him? I need answers._

As House clears his throat, he rolls his eyes to the foot of the bed. He's been so distracted he hasn't realise that the book is closed, on the floor with the mug on top of it. “I like it when you're quiet,” he says, softly. “Maybe next time you say something idiotic during a differential I'll just gag you in front of everyone.”

Chase's eyelids flutter; God, he doesn't want to be as aroused by that idea as he is. House chuckles. He seems softer tonight, somehow, maybe even a little reserved. Perhaps he's tired. Or perhaps... perhaps he doesn't want to do this anymore.

No, not that. Please, don't let it be that. Chase thinks he'll die if this ever stops happening between them. He doesn't know how he'll live without it.

_Though, maybe it's for the best. If he can't even share his body with me..._

He's grateful for the abrupt end to the thought process as House gets up, distracting him. Chase's clothes are in a heap beside the bed; he bends down and retrieves his tie from the pile after some rummaging, and Chase's breath halts in his throat as House perches on the bed beside him. He runs the tip of the tie along his bare chest, and his sensitised skin prickles beneath the contact, a whimper escaping him.

“Ssh,” House murmurs. “I want to try something. Close your eyes.”

Chase complies, shuddering as the silky material brushes the bridge of his nose; lifting his head to assist as House fastens it at the back of his head, plunging him into darkness. It's tight enough that his eyes can't open beneath it, shutting out all traces of light. The added degree of helplessness relaxes him somewhat, amplifies the sensations elsewhere in his body. The way the rope on his left ankle digs into tender bone, creating a gnawing, sweet kind of pain. The ever increasing burn on his nipples, the one he's determined to endure as long as he physically can until House is satisfied enough to remove the clamps. The straps of the gag chafing at the corners of his mouth, the temporary grooves they'll leave on his skin afterwards, the gentle sting that House will kiss away later.

He feels House take his hand. He's to squeeze twice for good, once for bad, when he can't use his safeword. He squeezes twice.

House purrs a soft “good boy”. Chase's ears prick up at the rattle of a belt buckle being opened, the rustle of clothing moving against sheets. He turns his head, blindly, attention fully captured as he realises that House is pulling down his pants. _Shit._

There's the unmistakeable sound of friction, skin rubbing against skin. House's lips are at his ear, and Chase arches with need as House moans softly into it. He shifts with some difficulty to assist as House's arm slides under his torso, hissing at the added pain the movement shocks through his nipples. And then... fuck... as House presses their bodies together, he can feel the slightly slick head of his cock brushing against his flank. Feel House's fist brushing him as he works his length, hard, furious, sighing and groaning against him with complete abandon. Chase wonders, perhaps for the first time, if this is about torture. It's certainly the cruellest fucking thing House has ever done, to blindfold him so he can't see him pleasure himself like this. Over him. Maybe House is deliberately making him wait for this, because he knows how bad he wants it...

Yes, that's it. That fits. It makes sense. It's definitely not about a lack of attraction right now, not about a lack of sexual thrill from doing these things to him. He's trying to torment him. He must be.

House's breaths are stuttered, ragged, the odd curse slipping out amidst them. God, how Chase wishes he could see his face, contorted in pleasure, eyes closed, mouth open... all for him... “Chase.” His name is soft, thick, against his ear. “God, Chase, fuck... I wish you could see how you look right now...” A stuttered sigh, a longing moan. “You're perfect, you're incredible, you're...”

He cuts himself off. His mouth is on Chase's face, his neck, wet, hot, purring into his skin, teeth grazing that sensitive flesh between throat and clavicle. Chase is astounded, and he's paralysed with need, his own breaths coming thick and fast. He never thought House capable of such uninhibited praise, of coming so completely undone beside him, even if he doesn't have his sight available to truly drink in the whole thing. It's surreal, beyond anything he ever imagined. He whimpers around his gag, savouring the closeness, the intimacy, the gift of being permitted to experience Gregory House of all people come apart like this, for him... telling him he's not just good, or hot, but _perfect_...

Then House releases a growl, and everything stops. He feels the body beside him go rigid, as something warm bursts in waves over his stomach, his flank. It's like being kissed all over, like feeling the first drops of July rain in Melbourne on his face, as House coats his skin with his release; as he lets go with a series of guttural, moaning sighs into his neck. Fuck. House just came on him.

Chase lays still, giddy in the wake of what just happened. His cock aches, screaming for release; his nipples ache too, screaming for release in the literal sense. Still, he lays quietly, compliant, as House catches his breath; relaxes into him as the arm around him pulls him close, the clothed body beside him pressing against his naked one with a fierce desperation, like he was loathe to let go. “Chase,” he murmurs again. There's stubble against his cheek, a hand on his neck, not pressing, not choking. Just gentle. Chase sighs, in bliss. Finally slipping into the space he craves.

Then, as the clamps are quickly snapped off of his nipples, he releases a muffled scream. Fuck, they never hurt so bad as when they come off. _Fuck_...

Above him, House chuckles. “Oops.”

_Bastard._

He hears the rustle of sheets, feels shifting on the bed. The dip between his legs, the hands on his thighs as House settles in between them. He arches his hips greedily, begging without the words he can't use for release. He's been suffering like this for so long. House _has_ to...

Then, as he feels something wet and warm engulf the head of his cock, he stiffens in shock. Is House going to... suck him off? Really?

Noticing his reaction, House is above him immediately. He feels his head being lifted quickly, without grace; the tug at the buckle at the back of his head, the gag being slipped out of his mouth. “Not okay?” House asks.

Chase sucks in a deep breath, tries to adjust to the emptiness, the absence of the rubber ball. His jaw aches ever so slightly. He moves it side to side, trying to shake it off, before responding, “Definitely okay, Sir. Just surprised.”

_Take this damn blindfold off,_ he almost adds. _I have to fucking see this..._

House trails a finger down his chest. “Well. Don't get used to it.”

And then House's mouth is engulfing his length, hot, moist, tongue on his shaft, hands on his balls and ohfuck how did he get so good at this. Chase knows he isn't going to last long, not like this; not as his head brushes House's throat, not as House moans around him, the vibrations sending sparks of utter bliss coursing through him. He fights not to buck his hips, tugging absently at his restraints, head thrashing against the pillow as he whines in abandon. He wants to savour this, wants this to drag on forever, but he's too far gone. Too fucking hard, too frenzied.

“Can I cum, Sir?” he gasps, fighting at the edge. “Please, _please_...”

When House grunts his permission around him, lips tightening around his cock, he spills into House's mouth with a long, low groan. All the torture, all the denial, all the waiting while House completely ignored him, finally rewarded. Earned. Deserved. And as House swallows every last drop, Chase doesn't think he'll ever be more content in his life than he is at that moment.

House takes his time in untying him, stopping occasionally to press slow, leisurely kisses on his mouth, ones that Chase eagerly returns, tasting himself on House's lips. The tie is last to come off of his face, with House shielding his eyes with his hands for a moment or two, giving them a chance to readjust to the light. His hair is even more dishevelled than usual, his eyes bleary with exhaustion. Though as he cups his face in his hand and presses a kiss to his forehead, Chase sighs happily and lets himself collapse against him, grateful for the arms that draw him in for a soft embrace; for the comfortable, post-coital silence that they've grown so used to sharing. House's semen still rests on his stomach, cold now, dried out to sticky globs. He doesn't mind; it feels good. Feels like House has marked him, somehow.

Chase is fighting not to let his eyes close too tightly; not to drift off into the slumber his body begs for after its ordeal. Then, as House suddenly murmurs, “it's my leg,” his confusion at the statement guides him back to alertness.

“You in pain?” he asks, voice muffled by his face pressed into his chest. “I can get you something.”

“It's more... I don't want you to see it.”

As House's arms tighten further around him, he keeps still, trying to process that statement. He knows House well enough to realise that he's pulling him closer so that he can't look up, can't make eye contact with him while he's revealing something so personal. He plays along, tightening his grip on his shirt. “What are you worried about?” he asks eventually, hoping the question won't spook him.

House is silent for a moment. Then, “It's not pretty down there. Not only that, but what if I'm trying to fuck you and it... gives out. You know. Kills the mood pretty damn fast.”

Chase's first emotion is irritation towards himself. How could he possibly not have realised? How could he possibly not have gathered all the things he knows about House – his bad leg, his pain, his inability to appropriately express what's bothering him – and not figured this out by himself? House isn't secretly repulsed by him, or doing him a favour, or trying to fuck with him, or any of the other selfish ideas that have crossed his mind over the past few weeks. The reality is much simpler: House is afraid.

He takes his time to formulate his response, hoping that House doesn't take his silence as confirmation that his fears are warranted. It all makes so much sense: the getting him fucked without having to do it himself, the declaration of need in his office yet the reluctance to do it, the blindfold this evening so that Chase couldn't see him; so that House would be shielded from view if anything went wrong.

“There's no rush,” Chase says eventually. “I love things how they are.” He means it.

House doesn't say anything to this, but Chase doesn't expect him to. He quietly nuzzles House's chest with his cheek, warm, soft. The ropes have left pink indents on his wrists, and they're beautiful to look at, a reminder of his earlier helplessness. Shame they'll fade within the hour.

When House pulls him even closer, the compression on his ribcage makes it hard to breathe. He seems to hesitate a moment. Still, Chase really doesn't expect the next words out of his mouth: “Stay tonight. Sleep over.”

Chase hardly dares to believe the implications of this. Cautiously, he endures House's crushing grip and says, “It is late. I guess I'll be fine on the couch.”

“In here, you idiot. With me.”

Chase presses his mouth against House's shirt to stop something ridiculous slipping out: something like, _House, I could lie next to you forever._ When he trusts himself to speak, he opts for a muffled “that'd be nice.”


	5. Belt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a warning, this chapter features a consensual non-consent scene. It's a little on the heavy side of BDSM generally. Please avoid this chapter if you think it could be too heavy and/or triggering.

As time goes on, Chase is becoming less surprised by House's vulnerability, the softness he keeps so well hidden from the rest of the world. He doesn't treat him any differently at work, although Chase had fruitlessly hoped that he might start to. He still yells at him and shoots down his ideas and berates him when he screws up. But he sees it differently now: realises, that in his own way, House is trying to help him. Build his resilience. Make him a better doctor.

Well, most of the time, anyway. Other times, it's just because his pain is so bad he's lashing out like a wounded animal. But if Chase is honest with himself, he doesn't entirely mind that either. He doesn't think he could live with that much pain and carry on with life as if nothing were amiss.

Oh, and the time they spend alone. When he kneels at House's feet in the evenings whilst they watch TV, closing his eyes in bliss as gentle fingers card through his hair. When House pulls him onto his lap and Chase straddles him, careful not to put too much pressure on his leg as they kiss in a lazy, tender fashion, like they really are lovers after all and not just... whatever this is.

What _is_ this? Chase wonders to himself for the thousandth time in the last few weeks, as he lets himself into House's apartment with the spare key he's been gifted. Has this quietly become a relationship without either of them knowing? How does he even begin to bring it up? With the intimacy and trust involved in what they're doing... is this closeness just inevitably part and parcel of that, no romance involved?

House is already in the hallway. Chase can see his lips quiver with the urge to smile at the sight of him; the way he neutralises his features, biting it back. “Go sit down,” he snaps, before Chase can greet him. “Wait for me.”

He shudders with anticipation as he watches House head for the bedroom, knowing full well what he's planning to retrieve. He wanders into the living room, and sits as instructed on the couch that House holds him on, kisses him on. The couch they routinely fall asleep together on in each others' arms.

It's nice that House wants to indulge him. It was less nice, Chase decided after a while, that House gets so little out of impact himself. The new spin on it had been his idea, and House had grinned so wickedly when he'd suggested it earlier that day that he knew he'd be getting much more out of it this time. Chase licks his lips, sandpaper dry with nerves and excitement, as he hears the thump of House's cane in the hallway; waits as he approaches. He concentrates on morphing the giddy smile on his face into a contrite, fearful expression.

He needn't have bothered. House isn't even looking at him as he strides into the room, eyes to the floor, his lips pressed into a tight frown. Just like when he's genuinely pissed at work. It's impressive enough to make him wonder if House ever took acting classes. That would put him at an unfair advantage here.

He stops in front of Chase, turned to the side, his untucked shirt hanging down so he can't see what belt he's wearing; whether it's the one that really hurts, or the one that hurts so much just the sight of it brings tears to his eyes. His gut tells him it's probably the latter.

He regrets everything.

“You're an idiot,” House begins. “How could you miss something as simple as an elevated white blood cell count?”

Chase throws his hands up, biting back a smile. Mustn't corpse. This only works if you commit. “House, I'm sorry,” he says. “There was a lot going on, I was...”

“How long have you been a doctor?” His voice has that condescending tone, the one so familiar to him, yet it's never made him shiver with anticipation quite like this. “And your excuse is, 'there was a lot going on'?”

Chase realises he's never going to be able to be scolded by House at work again without his mind bringing him back to this exact moment. Shit. Never thought of that. Never mind.

He makes a show of shrugging helplessly, getting to his feet. “Look, I know I made a mistake,” he says quickly. “But it will never happen again.”

“No.” House takes a step towards him. “It won't.”

“I promise.” Chase chews his lip, tugs on his sleeves where they hang limply around his wrists. “Can I go now? I'll get a good night's sleep so that I don't...”

He jolts when House closes the gap between them, throwing his cane to the floor. As a rough hand grabs his throat, the wicked leer in House's eyes makes him want to go limp against him, ready to submit. But it's not that kind of scene. He's actually got some work to do.

“What the hell?” he cries instead, grabbing House's wrist with both hands. “Get off me!”

His struggles only encourage House to tighten his grip, until he's struggling for air. He releases a choked whimper, widening his eyes in feigned horror as the command comes: “Pull your pants down and bend over. Or you're fired.”

As House lets go, Chase stumbles backwards, the backs of his calves colliding with the sofa. He catches himself, fighting the urge to comply immediately; feigns a laugh as he says, “you're not serious.”

“Try me.”

Chase stares at him, eyes following his hands as he eases up his shirt to reach for his belt buckle. It is indeed that exact belt. Fuck. “House, please,” he breathes, part of him not entirely pretending. “I'll never screw up a test again...”

House gives a sigh of exasperation. Chase flinches as he quickly tears his belt out of the loops on his jeans, the leather end of it slapping against the carpet. “If you wanna keep your job, pull your fucking pants down. I am not screwing around.”

Chase inhales deeply, meeting House's eyes, as he gives him an encouraging nod, a threatening flick of his eyebrows. Chase closes his eyes, reaching down to undo the zipper on his pants. He shrugs them down his legs, trying to be slow about it, at least attempting to portray the reluctance he's meant to feel. He's certain it isn't convincing. “Are you sure this is necessary?” he whispers, as he turns around and bends, supporting himself with his hands against the couch.

House is behind him; as a hand comes down against his ass, he gasps. “Absolutely necessary,” House replies. “For your redemption and my amusement. I think ten should do it. Keep still. Count.”

Chase shakes his head. “Please don't make me...”

A stinging flush spreads across his buttock, and he cries out, not expecting the slap from House's hand. “Shut up. You're gonna count. Every time you don't, you earn yourself five more. Understood?”

“I... okay. Understood.” He draws a shuddering breath, bracing himself, as it occurs to him that he's not sure how much longer he can keep up the pretence of not wanting this. The vulnerability of being bent over for House like this already has him spiralling, ready to lose control. The knowledge of what's coming...

House's hand leaves his behind. As he takes a step back, Chase braces himself; smiles, at House's softer tone, as he reminds him, “Sarcoidosis if you want me to stop.”

Chase yelps as the belt comes down across his ass, the force of it jolting his body forward, sending the breath hurtling out of his lungs. “Fuck!” Then, “o-one.”

He can hear the smirk in House's voice as he announces, “nine more to go.”

He allows Chase no time for recovery with the second and the third, his buttocks already ablaze, tears clouding his vision by the fourth. “Please, House,” he chokes out, digging his nails into the couch cushion. “Please...” The next crack is particularly brutal, forcing a sob from his throat as his arms buckle beneath him, making him fall to his elbows on the couch. “Five! Fuck!”

“Such language,” House chides, cracking the belt against the couch next to where Chase has collapsed; he jumps at the force of it, evoking a chuckle. “Didn't they teach you not to swear at church?”

“Six,” Chase moans, knees buckling, ass smarting as the leather collides with his skin again. The endorphins are kicking in; it's getting harder to keep his eyes open, his mind switched on. He lets himself slip away into the sensations, that delicious burn across his asscheeks, the feeling of his knees hitting the floor as House hits him again. “Seven! Oh, god...”

“Don't start praying now,” House taunts from behind him, sounding slightly breathless. Usually, it's just the exertion that does this to him, but this time his voice is deeper, a sign that he's aroused. Despite everything, Chase can't hold back a satisfied smile. He knew the difference in approach, making this about power rather than just about causing him pain, would have that effect.

Number eight sends the tears spilling forth from his eyes. He keeps count with a choked sob, a whimpered plea; buries his face into the couch to muffle his screams at the final two, the hardest of all, in quick succession. “N-nine... ten.”

Chase weeps into the cushion before him as he hears the belt clatter to the floor. It's not about the pain now, even if that was the catalyst for his tears. It's about being broken down, about release, an orgasm for the mind. It's not something he expects House will ever understand, but it's enough that he allows him to experience it; merely sits quietly on the couch beside him, covering his clenched fist with his hand until his shoulders stop heaving. His head feels foggy, his body limp. He feels more relaxed than he's felt in days.

When he's composed enough to raise his head again, House smiles, faintly, looking as dazed as Chase feels. “Good?”

“Good,” Chase repeats.

House nods, then his face hardens. “Would you blow me to keep your job?”

Chase opens his mouth in surprise. Is House asking him to...? Really? Are things finally moving forward? “Are you sure?” is all he can manage.

“I'm sure.” Despite his reassurance, Chase detects the flash of nervousness in his eyes as he jabs a hand in his direction, grabbing him by the hair. As he twists, hard, yanking his head back until Chase releases a choked cry, he adds, “but I don't think you're supposed to be.”

Understanding, Chase swallows his delight, slipping back into character. “No, House,” he gasps, squirming in his grip. His resistance only tightens it, the pain sharp and grating. “I-I won't...”

The slap to his face catches him by surprise, knocking his head back. He releases a sob as he raises a hand to his cheek, staring up at House with pleading eyes.

“We'll try that again,” he says, through elevated breaths. “Are you going to suck my cock to keep your job, or am I going to have to make you do it then fire you anyway?”

God, it's hot when House threatens him. It's so hard to keep up the show, when all he wants to do is get in there and let House fuck his mouth until he's spent.

Still, he shakes his head, whimpering his protests. “Please don't do this, House. I'll do anything else, just, please...”

“I want you to do this.” He shifts on the couch so he's sitting before Chase on the floor, keeping his grip tight in his hair as he reaches for his zipper. “So I suggest you open your pretty mouth before I call Cuddy and tell her to kick you off of payroll.”

What is House's obsession with dragging Cuddy into these things? Still, at least she's not on the other end of the phone this time. Chase feigns another series of whimpers as House fumbles at his jeans, struggling a little with just one hand, but if Chase were to help he'd ruin the mood.

“House, stop,” he pleads instead. “I'm sorry I screwed up the test, just...”

Chase trails off as House accomplishes his task and reveals his cock, a lusty sigh escaping him at the sight. Weeks, now, of doing this, and yet he's never revealed himself to him, never let Chase touch him. He's so hard, his head leaking fluid. All for him. Chase delights in the thought, briefly marvels at his self-control; if Chase got this aroused during every scene and was unable to relieve himself, he thinks he would probably die. One of the many reasons why he pointedly left “orgasm denial” off of the list he gave House all those weeks ago.

He's jolted out of his thoughts as House yanks his head forward, forcing his lips to brush the head of his cock. He can't hold in a soft moan at the feeling of pre cum coating his lips, the smooth, silky flesh there. He makes a show of shaking his head as House snarls, “Open your fucking mouth, Chase. I can see you want it. Do it now, or you're fired.”

His eyes are like ice, his tone so cruel that Chase can't hold back anymore. He parts his lips and moans in satisfaction as House's cock slides into his mouth, filling him, heavy on his tongue. The taste, the sensation... fuck, it's been so long since he's done this. So long since he felt a vicious hand on the back of his head, pushing him down until he gags at the thickness in his throat. Then, at a deep, guttural groan above him, a sound of pure pleasure, his head starts to spin.

“I can tell you've done this before.” House's voice is thick, and Chase struggles not to choke as he roughly arches his hips up into his mouth. “Got yourself into similar situations at med school, did you? Have to do this to pass a few classes here and there?”

As House lets him up for air, he's almost grateful. He coughs a little, sucking in a deep breath as he stutters a broken, “Fuck you.”

“Hmm.” House's mouth curls into a sneer, then slackens open helplessly as he forces Chase's mouth back onto his length. “Now there's an idea. Maybe next time you screw up I'll fuck you instead to teach you a lesson. Fucking whore.”

Chase is in heaven. Clearly, so is House, as his insistent hand lets up a little, allowing him to control his movements instead. He can no longer keep up his protests; at the sight of House throwing his head back in ecstasy against the couch, he keeps his rhythm fast and hard, letting the head of his cock brush the back of his throat. House has given up the theatrics too, panting, his hands gentle in his hair now, stroking and petting instead of tugging.

“God, you're good,” he groans, and Chase smiles around him, satisfied. _Yes_, he thinks. _I am_. 

House cums with a deep, ragged grunt, filling Chase's mouth with his release. As he swallows eagerly, he notices the way House's hands grasp at nothing around him, the way his eyes close and his face seems entirely blank. Clear. Serene. He's never seen House looks so at peace; never seen anyone, in fact, look so tranquil at the point of orgasm. Most people screw their faces up, or open their mouths really wide. It isn't flattering. House, though, has never looked so beautiful to him as he does in that moment.

When it's over, Chase feels wasted. He feels like he's slammed several shots in quick succession, like he's shot up a gram and a half of heroin, as House takes his arm and eases him up off the floor, shifting so he can lay him down on the couch. House brushes his lips against his, his kiss so chaste and tender in contrast to what just transpired between them. Chase loves the kisses afterwards, the touches, being held and praised and whispered to. It's almost better than the actual scenes. Almost.

“You're an ass,” Chase sighs when he pulls away, his fingers still trembling from the intensity of it all as House interlaces them with his own.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” House just smiles. “If the neighbours call the cops, you don't know me, okay?”

“I'm literally in your apartment,” Chase tries to counter, but he's distracted as he watches House's hand slip between his legs. He palms the bulge there through the boxers he still wears, and Chase arches into his touch, keening for more.

“I'd make you beg for this,” House says softly, Chase wiggling his hips to assist as he slips down his waistband, “but lucky for you, I'm exhausted.”

He shudders with bliss as House's hand starts to fist his cock. His last coherent thought before he cums embarrassingly quickly has something do with how lucky he really is.


	6. Scar

Chase has days where he hurts so badly that he doesn't know what to do with himself.

It had started with the clinic patient who'd recently lost her father. She'd only come in with a minor sniffle (Chase had held in the House-esque urge to snap at her that the pharmacy was down the street), but she'd clearly wanted to talk. He'd spent twenty minutes with her as she dabbed at her streaming eyes and spoke of the wonderful man she'd given up her job to care for in the last two years of his life. The love in her voice had touched something raw in him, something uncomfortable; something that felt a lot like jealousy, that her grief was so uncomplicated. As he ushered her out and called in the next patient, all he could see in his mind's eye was his own father's face, the last time he saw him; getting into that taxi, hiding cancer in his lungs. What he wouldn't give for one last conversation. What he wouldn't give to be able to say “you're an absolute cunt, but I forgive you.” Maybe not the last part. Maybe not even “I still love you.” He just doesn't know.

Things had gone downhill from there. When his clinic hours were over, he'd promptly returned to the conference room to enter into some pointless, weird argument with Foreman he couldn't even remember the beginnings of, but he recalled how small he'd felt when Foreman rolled his eyes and told him to pull himself together. Cameron had attempted to discuss it with him later in the lab, as he tried in vain to focus on cells through the microscope. Although he'd politely suggested that she leave it alone, she persisted until he'd snapped at her to cut it out. He still remembered the hurt look on her face, the nasty little voice in his mind that followed: _wow, she was just trying to help. You're just like your father._

Just as he was slipping off his lab coat in preparation to leave, their patient had coded. Some hours later, after stabilising him and trawling through endless paperwork in the wake of the incident, he'd finally exited the hospital just after eleven. He'd sat in his car for a while, trying to muster up the energy to drive home. The thought wasn't appealing, no matter how he tried to present it to himself.

House would still be awake. It was early for an insomniac.

Chase hopes this isn't a bad idea. It's not like he doesn't drop by unannounced occasionally these days, whatever that might mean; he fears getting hurt if he thinks about it too much. House's spare key is affixed to his own set, and he knocks gently on the door to announce his presence before letting himself in. “House?”

The lights are off in the hallway, a dim glow from the bedroom casting shadows across the walls. “In here,” he calls.

Just the sound of his voice is enough to soothe him, enough to rub the edge off of the day's memories. He kicks off his shoes and slips towards the bedroom, finding House reclining on the bed, some medical journal open in his hands. It's in Mandarin. Is this what House calls light bedtime reading?

House frowns a little at the sight of him – is that... concern? “Bit late for a booty call,” he says.

Chase shrugs, awkwardly. He knows he has no business being here. He shouldn't be burdening House like this. “I'm sorry,” is all he can think to say.

House's eyes don't stray from him as he closes the journal and lays it down on the nightstand. He waves his hand, as if dismissing his apology. “It's good to see you.”

For the first time today, Chase smiles genuinely. Then, fuelled by his admission, he blurts out, “I need you to fuck me up.”

He bites his lip, awaiting House's reaction. Watching, as he says nothing; as he holds his bad leg and eases himself down off the bed.

“I mean,” he adds, giddy with anticipation as House approaches, “if you're not too tired.”

House stops centimetres before him, casting a glance over his face. “What happened to you?”

Chase is silent for a moment, as he tries to figure out how to answer the question. He can speak House well enough by now to know that it's his way of asking if he's okay, maybe even inviting him to talk about it. He swallows, hard. How is he to explain everything? How is he to recount the sequence of events that started with him consoling a clinic patient this morning and ended with him showing up at his boss's door to ask for a beating to help him forget all of it?

He can't. So he just shrugs.

When House reaches up to place a hand on the back of his head, Chase closes his eyes and moans in anticipation, waiting for the twist of fingers in his hair, the jerk of his neck as House tosses him to the floor like he's garbage. It doesn't come. Instead, House closes the gap between them and pulls him close, other arm snaking around his back. Chase stiffens a moment, confused. Then, as House presses his cheek up against his and murmurs something against him that sounds like “relax”, Chase sighs and gingerly returns the embrace.

“This is what you need tonight.” House is warm and tender against him, as his fingers carve gentle lines into his scalp; as his arm lazily roams his back. “You need mercy. I'm not going to hurt you.”

The prick of disappointment at his words is only momentary, quickly replaced with the knowledge that House is right. The woman in the clinic, that last image of his father, Foreman's bitching, Cameron's failed attempt at comfort; as House sways against him from foot to foot, the fragmented images in his mind slowly start to lose their power.

Chase initiates the kiss, and House returns it eagerly, opening his mouth against him with a quiet moan. His stubble grazes his chin, his tongue warm and soft as Chase pulls him closer still, to feel the softness of his abdomen against his own; he sighs as House's hands snake downwards, resting on his hips. They gently ease him forward, pressing their groins together; the contact makes Chase shudder and clench his fists against his back.

House pulls away first. He bites his lip before murmuring, “I'm ready now.”

The weight of his words don't sink in at first, until Chase realises what he means. He hesitates before asking, “are you sure?”

House responds with a nod. “But, no Sir tonight. Just Greg.”

Then his eyes fall closed and he releases a sigh of desire before his lips find Chase's throat, not nipping, not mouthing; just brushing his lips against the soft flesh there, sensual, gentle. Chase gasps at the contact, tilting back his head; his hips arch up against House's, the forming hardness in his groin brushing his. He feels the tug on his shirt as House starts working at the buttons, slowly, stroking the exposed flesh with his fingertips as he goes.

Nervously, Chase reaches for the hem of House's t-shirt, giving a gentle pull to seek permission. House straightens up for a moment and removes it himself, holding Chase's gaze as he discards it to the floor. At the sight of his bare torso, Chase grabs his shoulders and slams his mouth up against his, evoking a moan at his aggression; his hands roam his abdomen, brush his nipples, the hair on his chest soft against his palms. He's wanted to touch House like this for so long, reach beneath his clothes, run his hands over every bit of flesh exposed to him. House responds to his attention with a purr against his mouth, fingers fumbling quickly, blindly over his buttons, until Chase reluctantly has to tear his hands away to help him shrug off his own shirt.

House draws out of the kiss, breathing hard, his eyes hazy with desire. Chase is so focused on drinking him in that he barely notices the hand taking his, the fingers interlocking with his own until House snakes an arm around his waist and leads him forward, towards the bed. He lowers himself down onto the mattress, reaching for Chase's belt buckle; Chase closes his eyes with a gasp where he stands before him, threading his fingers through House's hair as he works it open along with his zipper, quickly sliding down his pants. His boxers brush against his stiff cock as House slips those off too, and he murmurs a curse at the sensation, steadying himself against House's shoulders.

“You are divine,” House whispers, as his hand engulfs his length. Chase whines quietly, at his words, his touch. It's just... so fucking good. He never imagined it could feel this good, simply being touched, stroked, hard as steel in House's hand. As he regards the man below him, he cups his face, lapping up the tenderness, the touch that he never imagined could be so soft from him. House is always right: this is what he needs tonight. Not to be hurt and degraded, not to submit to House's every command until he's sobbing and broken; just to share pleasure with him as his equal.

Chase wants to make House feel as good as House makes him feel. He licks his lips nervously. “Can you sit up on the pillows for me? Lean against the headboard?”

House's other hand is on his ass, and Chase releases a quiet moan as he kneads the flesh there. He smirks. “Are you trying to dominate me?”

Chase shakes his head. “No. Just trying to make you comfortable. I, err...” He trails off. For God's sake, given all the filth that comes out of his mouth in House's presence usually, he should be able to say this. He clears his throat. “Actually... I want to ride you.”

House's eyes gleam. He purrs in approval, pressing a kiss to Chase's abdomen. “That works.”

The next few moments pass in a blur, as Chase assists House up onto the bed. He lays down beside him, caressing his bare chest, lips working against his in leisurely, longing kisses. He feels House's quiver as he blindly skates a hand downwards to slip beneath the waistband on his pyjama pants; breath hitching as his hand brushes the head of his cock, hard and silky and slightly damp against his palm. As he wraps his fingers around it, building a gentle rhythm beneath the material, House sighs against him and grabs limply at his arm, arching into his touch. “God, Chase,” he breathes against his lips. “You're...”

House stiffens against him as Chase jauntily attempts to tug his pyjama pants down, with some difficulty at the one-handed mission. He draws out of the kiss, halting all movements with a frown. “You okay?” he asks.

House's eyes are wary, avoiding his, as he nods. “Just... don't pull them all the way down.”

His voice is heavy with all the things he can't bring himself to add to that statement: _my leg is under there. I don't want you to see it. I'm worried about what you'll think._

Chase sits up a little, pressing a kiss to House's cheek. “We don't have to do this,” he says softly. “If you're not ready.”

House nods fiercely in response. “If we don't do it now I'm gonna lose my damn mind,” he says, in a voice that sounds reassuringly more like his. “Now get the lube out of the nightstand before I change my mind about not hurting you.”

Chase grins his understanding. “Fine, but you're borrowing my safeword.” He shifts to reach the drawer, not taking his eyes off of House. “Sarcoidosis if you want me to stop.”

House groans, but he's struggling not to smile. “Fine. If it makes you feel better.”

Lube and condom retrieved, Chase shifts on the bed to straddle House. Holding his gaze, he takes his hand and pops the cap off the bottle with his teeth, moistening two of his fingers with the thick substance. House slips his hand between his legs and circles his fingertip gently around his opening, evoking a needy whimper from Chase; he slings an arm around House's neck as he feels that first finger push inside, his breath catching in his lungs at the sensation.

“Mm, fuck,” he gasps, wiggling his hips to adjust to more; moaning at the tinge of pleasure as House quickly finds his prostate.

House wastes no time in working in a second finger, breathing hard beneath him, other hand on his face, his hair, his shoulders, like he can't touch enough of him. It's too much, the fullness, the desire, the wait... the fucking wait, finally nearly over. As House's fingers move deliciously inside him, slow thrusts in and out, he tears open the condom wrapper and watches House's eyes flutter as he slowly rolls it down onto his cock, the movement of his hand slow and deliberate. Pouring another helping of lube into his palm, he watches House bite his lip and moan quietly as he wraps his fingers around his length, slicking him up in preparation.

Then House nips at his shoulder, snatching the empty wrapper and bottle out of his hand as he withdraws his fingers from Chase. “_Now_.”

Chase braces himself, gripping the headboard behind House as he angles his hips; murmuring another breathy “fuck” as he feels his wet cock brush his entrance. He lowers himself slowly, keeping his gaze fixed on House's as he takes him into his body inch by inch. Watches the way his jaw slackens, his eyes fall closed; the barely audible moan that spills from his lips: “_Chase_.”

Chase could listen to House moan his name like that forever. In fact, he could do this forever, rock his hips on House's cock until he's fully inside, finally, inside him. Chase allows a ragged breath to escape his lungs as he remains still for a moment, trying to relax, adjusting to the feeling; the stretch of muscle, the invasion. The euphoria, as House closes his eyes and places two firm hands on his behind, guiding him back up – God, that fucking feeling – then down again, until Chase finds his own rhythm. It's just so... good. He never imagined that sex with anybody could be this good.

As he cups House's face and draws him in for yet another deep kiss, tongue gently exploring his mouth, he moves slowly against him. He wants to savour everything; how House's hips feel beneath his thighs, how his embrace is so solid as he pulls him in close, the gentle, maddening stimulation of his cock rubbing against House's abdomen. Chase has always imagined that it would be different when it finally happened, that House would fuck him roughly on his hands and knees, brutal as he slapped his ass and groaned insults at him. Maybe throw him on his back in the desk in his office, leering over him with a hand on his throat and no care for his comfort or pleasure. He never pictured it like this, with House holding him so tightly, mumbling barely coherent praise and kissing him like the apocalypse is imminent. He wonders if House planned for this, the complete deviation in their dynamic for their first time together. They're not having sex, or fucking. They're making love.

House is running his hands through his hair, eyes half lidded, as Chase works his own cock in tandem with the rolls of his hips. He can see House is close, and he isn't going to last much longer either. He sucks on House's bottom lip, swollen from the force of their near constant kisses. “You feel amazing,” Chase whispers, with a moan as his orgasm builds. “_Fuck_...”

Then as House kisses his nose and whispers, “good boy,” Chase can't hold back anymore. He collapses against House, spilling his release all over their stomachs, his hand, biting his lip to stifle the cries of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. House is seconds behind him, arching up into him with a shuddering moan that melts Chase to his core. House, finally, cumming inside him.

Weeks of confusion, desperation, and then understanding, suddenly feel entirely worth it. He'd do it all over again.

**

Chase doesn't think he's ever been so worn out in his life. His horrendous day, then House... none of it matters anymore. He's lying in House's bed, fighting to keep his eyes open while he waits for him to come out of the shower. He's been a long time, far longer than usual, although the water stopped running a while ago.

He's debating whether to go and check on him when he hears the sound of a light switch being flicked off, a door closing. He's slightly surprised at the level of relief he feels when he hears slow footsteps down the hall, when House's figure appears in the open doorway. In his exhausted state, it takes a moment for him to realise that House is completely naked.

_Alright. Don't spook him. Don't make a big deal out of this._

Chase sits up in bed, reaching out to throw back the comforter so that House can get in too. He avoids Chase's eyes as he hoists himself up onto the mattress. He lays back, but he makes no attempt cover himself.

For the first time, Chase can properly see the deep, thick scar tissue on his thigh. It doesn't startle him, doesn't repulse him, or whatever else House seems to think it's going to do. All he's been through with that leg; all the pain, all the drugs, the way it must have completely changed his life. And yet, Chase never considered until now what it might mean for his self-esteem. He can't be sure whether its the exhaustion, the endorphins or the fact that he's had one of the shittiest days of his adult life, but the thought of House suffering like that makes him want to cry.

After a while, House addresses the ceiling as he says, “it's ugly.”

Chase tears his eyes away from the infarction site. He directs his gaze to House as he says, "I don't think it's ugly.”

House scowls. There's no irritation behind it, no indication that it's directed at him. “You're young and hot and I'm a middle aged cripple. It makes no sense that you're even here.”

“House,” he breathes, stunned. He pauses a moment, as he tries to pick his words carefully. He doesn't want to say anything that'll make him feel pitied, as nothing would get him thrown out quicker than that, probably without the chance to even grab his clothes. “You're still... it makes you who you are.”

House has his eyes closed; his features are taut and grim, like he's wishing he never said anything. Chase knows it must have cost him a lot to make that statement, to strip himself so bare with his words.

He shifts across the mattress, slipping an arm around House's waist. “I'm not going anywhere,” he says softly.

House remains stiff, tense, for a moment; but just for a moment, before he reaches out to draw Chase close to his chest. He's slow, cautious, as if he'll vanish at any moment, and something in Chase aches. Makes him want to reassure him further.

“I promise, House,” he murmurs, kissing his shoulder. “I love you no matter what.”

It takes him a moment to realise what he's said. As the words echo in the silence, Chase swears he feels his heart stutter a few beats and then stop altogether. _You were supposed to reassure him!_ screams a voice in his head. _Not blow this whole thing altogether!_

He can talk his way out of this. He's sure he can talk his way out of this. All he has to do is claim he meant to say something else. I... like you no matter what? That's a normal thing for friends to say to each other, right? Even in their kind of friendship? An employee could even say that to his boss, for example... Chase could even argue that House misheard him altogether. “Like” and “love” sound very similar... and he has an accent, after all...

“I love you too,” House says. Quite calmly. Kind of like it's not a huge, relationship altering statement.

Chase squirms out of his arms, propping himself up on his elbows. House's eyes are closed now, a half-smile on his mouth, his earlier turmoil apparently completely forgotten. “Are you going to sleep?” he demands.

House opens one eye. “S'late, Robbie. I'm old.”

“House.” Chase nudges him gently with his elbow. House swats at him, making an irritated noise. “You just said you loved me.” He must have fallen asleep. This must be a dream. Hell, he's been awake for almost 24 hours. He could be hallucinating.

“You said _you_ loved _me_.” Both eyes are open now. “Why, do you take it back?”

Chase shakes his head fervently. “Of course not.”

House smiles, clumsily reaching towards the nightstand to turn off the bedside lamp. “Then shut up.”

Chase blinks in the darkness, astounded, elated. The sleep his body has been waiting to welcome ever since he reluctantly climbed off of House's lap suddenly seems to have vacated the premises. House is easily the most unpredictable person he's ever encountered, but he never quite anticipated that his day would end like this. A few hours ago, the world felt upside down, like nothing could ever be right. Now, it feels as though nothing will ever hurt him ever again.

He draws the comforter up over House in the dark before laying down before him, feeling an arm drape around his waist; slow, sleepy breaths tickling his ear. “Imagine if I'd never got that collar delivered to work by mistake,” he murmurs, as he closes his eyes. He's not expecting to drift off any time soon, but lying here with House is better than sleeping anyway.

“I'd have just found another way to woo you,” House replies. “I'm sure I'd have opened something else of yours that would give me an in.”

Chase rolls his eyes. “Please stop opening my mail.”

“Why? You never get anything interesting.” House pauses. Then he asks, “what happened to that collar, by the way?”

“I still have it. I never took it out of the box.” In everything that's transpired between them, Chase suddenly realises that he forgot all about it. It was only something he bought to wear around his apartment when he was feeling lonely, just for the comfort of it. Which, now he reflects, seems incredibly sad.

“Bring it when you come over tomorrow,” House says, through a yawn. “Don't get used to this vanilla shit. Normal service will resume as soon as possible.”

Chase grins, closing his eyes. “I can't wait.”


End file.
